


O is for Obvious

by goodmorningvietnam666



Series: IronHawk Alphabet [15]
Category: Guardians of the Galaxy - All Media Types, Hawkeye (Comics), Iron Man - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: AU, Futuristic Universe, M/M, Some Humor, Space Politics, second meetings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-19
Updated: 2016-01-19
Packaged: 2018-05-15 01:20:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5766520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goodmorningvietnam666/pseuds/goodmorningvietnam666
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint honestly can't place the guy talking to Coulson, he feels like he should know him but... ah well, there are targets to shoot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	O is for Obvious

**Author's Note:**

> So.... I believe I owe you guys an apology. 
> 
> It was never my intention to go on complete hiatus, but family and academic issues kept popping up unannounced and I had no time for writing anymore, I am also working on an original novel and it's dominating most of my writing time so... wow, I was gone for a while huh?
> 
> Anyway, a new year often means a fresh start, and MY GOD GUYS! When I came back to this site and looked at the Kudos in N is for Nameless I was FLOORED: I had to check twice! So many thanks and hearts are necessary because when I saw that number I jumped right back into fanfiction because you've all been amazingly supportive: it's what's kept me going!
> 
> Okay, gross, sappy and boring stuff aside, here's the next letter: O!

His alarm blared at him, angry red yelling at him that it was 7:30 and that he should be up. He rolled over in bed, waved his hand at the hologram and slipped out of bed as the alarm stopped, silent and ready for tomorrow morning. 

He padded into his bathroom and turned both dials of his shower, returning to the bedroom to collect his uniform and then stepping into the warm stream of water, routine demanded that the shower went fast and he stepped out of it almost as soon as he stepped in, water trailing down his body until it was collected by a towel and removed from his body with brisk, firm rubs. 

Clothes followed the towel, everything form fitting and comfortable, and he left the bathroom, opening the curtains to his small apartment and stepping into his shoes, tying the laces and snatching his ID card from the benchtop of his kitchen. 

Stepping out of the apartment and pressing a thumb to the pad on the outside, he stepped into the foot traffic of the morning and then onto the nearest elevator, thumbing the button for his handler’s floor and standing back to make room for others.  
SHIELD had moved into space in the year 2020, and now, with a century of successful space-observation, it was the most highly-regarded, safe, and professional security agency in their little system. Sure, other systems had units like the Nova Corps, but they had SHIELD. 

They had him. 

Clint Barton, clearance level 9, Agent Hawkeye of SHIELD, solo act for their system, and the poster boy for field agents. 

The elevator doors slid open, and he strode out, confident and poised as he always was, on time to his meeting at 0800 hours. But rather than stepping into the empty office of his handler, Phil Coulson, his step faltered as said man talked with another person. 

He came to a stop and watched silently, confused, checking his watch for the date just to be sure, and repressed the urge to clear his throat. 

Instead, he moved silently to the side of the room, caught Coulson’s eye, and stayed quiet. 

The man his handler was talking to was a mess, clothes torn, dirty and burned; hair askew and body clearly battered and bruised, though the man was trying to hide it. One arm was held tightly to his chest, while the other gestured as he talked, and Clint couldn’t help but smirk at the sight of it. 

The smile faded though, because he’d seen this sort of thing before: Badoon raiders. 

Originally enemies of Spartax, the Badoon had themselves declared the enemies of Earth when Peter Quill took seat as the new King of Spartax after the death of his father. Being half-human, Quill’s rise to power had been viewed as a tacit challenge from Earth, and everything had collapsed into war. 

The war was quelled quickly, thanks to alliances and sheer force of will, but the Badoon still made nuisances of themselves today, blowing up small space settlements and making guerrilla runs on supply shipments. 

Clint hated them almost as much as the Star King and he knew a survivor when he saw one. 

Coulson’s visitor was about his age, give or take a few years, and spoke so softly, so timidly, that Clint had to strain to listen; he had dark hair and bright eyes and while he was quiet, there was an old confidence hidden in his gaze, in the way he didn’t slouch and never avoided Coulson’s gaze. 

At best guess, Clint would wager he was a CEO, or an owner of a company involving collaborative work… and though less likely, he’d bet on a celebrity. 

“Agent Barton”

He looked to Coulson at the call, and his handler offered a sympathetic smile “I’m sorry, but this might take a while, and of course, it was unexpected, putting a wrench in our meeting”

He shrugged, complacent only out of respect for the man, and pushed off of the back wall “Don’t worry about it sir: R&D has something special for me, maybe if I get there early, I won’t have to pay for it”

Coulson chuckled, a fond look in his eyes that Clint had found felt like home, like dry grass and crisp wind, the sound of farm animals in the distance “Good luck with that”  
He let a rare smile loose, tossing a wink in the man’s direction and stepping back into the elevator, hitting the required button and watching its path, stepping out into the smell of welded metal and the sound of machines, the crisp scent of chemicals and a familiar hint of spent ammunition. 

He pressed a thumb against one door and stepped through as it slid open; watching with some satisfaction as Bruce Banner gave him a look of surprise, a smile replacing it instantly “You’re early”

“Coulson’s occupied: another settlement blown” he answered, eyeing the bow, unstrung and shiny, sitting on the desk. 

“We only heard this morning” Bruce supplied, sliding a mug of coffee his way “One survivor, that’s the only silver lining we have: one person” his friend sighed softly “Cap’s furious”  
“Cap” or, better known, Steve Rogers, was the symbol of the system’s resistance: his name moved from Captain America to just Captain a long time ago, and aside from the  
difficulty that missing roughly 200 years caused, he was in perfect shape to motivate everyone. 

Including Clint. 

“I can imagine” he noted, sipping from the mug and nodding in approval “You remembered not to butcher it” he praised, grinning when Bruce scoffed. 

“You put so much sugar in there I’m surprised you’re not dead” his friend chastised, bringing up a holographic screen and adding or removing the information on it “He’s in the training room, scaring the recruits”

He shook his head, tracing the rim of the cup with a finger “That’s constructive of him… maybe I’ll throw myself in there, go a few rounds” he and Steve had that one thing in common: the urge to hit things. When he was mad, or upset, or even tired, usually the closest object (or person, on his worst days) was introduced to his fist. 

“Don’t you dare” Bruce said, voice hardening “Your rib has just finished healing and Coulson’s putting faith in the fact that you won’t get injured on base: that’s the only  
reason Fury’s still passing you info, let alone missions” his friend glanced up from the hologram, eyes meeting his “You’re reckless Clint, and you know SHIELD doesn’t like it”

“Tch” he offered, swatting the accusation away “SHIELD cares about the property damage and the legal work, Coulson cares about my wellbeing” he corrected, draining his mug “That’s how it is, that’s how it will stay – I’m shrapnel, Bruce – they don’t care about the scrapes and tears and you know it”

Bruce sighed, patting on the shoulder gently “I can’t change your mind Clint, you’re too stubborn for that… here” he said, sliding the bow to him “Try not to break this one”

As it met his hand, a sleek line of purple fit onto the bow, lighting up its body and becoming its string, a soft hum resonating from the weapon “Technology doesn’t agree with me: I’d be better off with one of my bows, you know, with a real string attached to it”

“Fury would have a heart attack: you know the deal Clint: SHIELD’s weapons or you go home – they don’t want any more lawsuits regarding your arsenal: it’s amazing they still let you have a bow”

“Yeah, I know” he said, nearing the door and pressing his thumb to it “I’ll be careful”

“See that you do: you know I hate hospitals, especially when they’ve got my friends in them” Bruce countered, folding his arms, gaze softening “Don’t be stupid”

He chuckled, not having an answer, and left the workspace, walking through a long, windowed hallway to the nearest shooting range, signing off a quiver, and stepping onto it, watching the other users warily clear the way for him. 

He felt the pull on his ribs as he drew back the arrow, but pushed through the twinge, lining up the shot, and fired. He looked at where the glowing purple arrow had hit, and stalked closer when he didn’t like what he saw. It had hit the centre – his shots always did – but it wasn’t dead on, in fact, it was at least an inch or two off. He sighed heavily through his nose, ripping the arrow out and stalking back to the shooting line, drawing and firing. 

He kept at it until he couldn’t lift his arm to the quiver. 

The gel was cool against his worn muscles, but once the doctor’s hand left that area, it heated up, working the sore tissue as though massaging it and Clint watched the surrounding med-bay boredly. 

“What’re you in for?” he asked a familiar face with smooth skin and bright green eyes, a pout on soft lips. 

Natasha shook her head at him, her upper arm and shoulder wrapped in heavy bandages as her attending medic wrote down something on a holographic pad “Got in Rogers’ way” she said, scowling when she caught his glare “Don’t, he’s already kicking himself”

He relaxed then, much to his doctor’s appreciation, and nodded his head “How was Xandar?” he asked softly, only to keep himself distracted.

Natasha shrugged, hissing when she moved her shoulder “Not happy, restless, actually it reminded me of home… it was terrible” she answered, a poisonous smile falling into place, daring him to press further. 

He didn’t, and instead stood, stretching his arms and holding back the whine of pain as he did, his muscles stiff and stubborn to the movement “I’ll see you on the range?” he asked, already knowing the answer, but asking just to watch a pretty grin replace the other smile before he walked away. 

He stopped at the shout of pain coming from another station, and edged to the door to investigate. For the second time today he saw their survivor, at the mercy of an older doctor with a hardened face, her hands steadying his arm as she freed his skin from his clothing, the burnt skin clinging to the material desperately. 

Clint hissed in sympathy: he’d been burnt before, and it hadn’t been pleasant “You playing nice doc?” she knew him, they were the bane of the other’s existence, and she smiled at him almost playfully. 

“I’m always nice Agent” was her reply as he sat down nearby, relaxing his shoulders and easing his muscles “It’s you I worry for”

The survivor yelped in pain then, breaking the cheerful mood, and he moved close to the other man, offering up an open palm. 

Those bright eyes watched his hand for a moment, before scowling up at him “You’re kidding aren’t you?”

Clint just shrugged, holding the man’s gaze and holding back a grin when another hand grasped his tightly, almost as sure as a vice “Burn’s hurt” he supplied finally “I’m Clint”

“Tony” was the answer he got, and his hand was squeezed tighter, if possible.

He wasn’t good at conversations with strangers, so he sat there quietly and let Tony abuse his left hand. 

“Why were you here?” the survivor asked “I mean, you were obviously leaving”

“Was I?” he asked, just to watch those eyes show doubt before he offered a smile “I took some training too far: nothing serious”

“I’m amazed you didn’t break something” the doctor said softly “Or reopen something”

He chuckled at her, turning back to Tony “How’s the pain?” he asked softly, holding up their clasped hands “Aside from the grip you’ve got, I’ve nothing to go on”

“Yeah… it’s a ten” Tony answered, arm twitching as though he wanted to move it “This sucks”

He nodded his understanding and took a seat on the bed, pulling the survivor’s hand over and then leaning across to look at the burnt skin of his left arm “Yeah… that kind of burn would, I can see why you’ve got the death grip going” he noted “I wonder if you remember how to let go?”

“You were in Agent Coulson’s office before” Tony accused, his eyes narrowing “Why?”

“Oh, no I can’t tell you that Tony” he replied “SHIELD stuff, secret agent stuff: as in, you know, if you knew I’d be dead” he explained, watching a strange look pass the survivor’s gaze before he laughed softly. 

“I built your tech, you know” Tony stated, squeezing his hand in gentler way “I own you”

“Collar and all?” he asked, grinning when he managed to make the survivor blush softly “I’m kidding, and even so, I can’t tell you: mostly because I don’t know”

“You’re a jerk” Tony announced, grip on his hand tightening suddenly “But you didn’t blanch at the knowledge that I’m Tony Stark, so I still like you”

“Aw, I feel all warm and fuzzy now” he countered, squeezing Tony’s hand in reply “We’ve met, actually: I didn’t recognise you at first but yeah, we’ve met”

“We have?” it was genuine curiosity now, and Clint thought those eyes looked good shining that way. 

He nodded “About… oh, three or four years ago you came up here and pitched a few high-tech weapons, I hated you because you made my bow moot but instead of getting all high and mighty, you bought me a drink…”

“And you punched that creep from across the bar! I know you!” the excitement hit Tony’s voice and when he laughed it made a beautiful sound “It should have been obvious”

He nodded “Probably… though, I did have my hair dyed for a mission”

“So you’re a natural blonde?” Tony asked, and when Clint nodded he did the same “Awesome”

“So, when the dear doctor is done torturing you” he began, grinning when she scoffed in reply “Want to let me repay the favour of a drink?”

“Yeah” Tony answered, squeezing his hand gently “I’d like that”


End file.
